Before I type one more word I want to make it clear that despite all evidence to the contrary, this post will be brought to you by the word/feeling—appreciation.

I appreciate so much the fact that due to the marvels of modern medicine, I stand before you today uterus-free. That is true.

I appreciate general anesthesia and the effect it has on a person. One moment you’re lying there counting to fifty and the next thing you know your entire nether region has been dyed orange with antiseptic, a nurse is harassing you with questions like what is the capital of Nebraska? (Omaha), what is the level of your pain (what pain? We haven’t started yet—silly), and the fact that you can’t for the life of you figure out how much cotton it takes to dry up every ounce of moisture in an entire human being—and who the fuck do you have to pay around this joint to get some ice chips?

I appreciate downtime. That week or so that’s required to get back on your feet and up to speed with life.

Every word of that was bullshit.

Surgery made me lie.
There, I said it.
I can’t explain why or how it’s happened.

I did feel appreciation for like a minute and then I went directly to feeling appalled.

Appalled!

Recovery from surgery is appalling. But I guess everyone knew that but me!
And now here’s the truth:

HOW HAVE I BEEN LUCKY ENOUGH TO HAVE NEVER BEEN CUT OPEN UNTIL NOW?

Sorry for yelling, but seriously? I’m fifty-nine and all I have to draw on surgery wise are just a couple of laparoscopies which are holes punched into you that can be closed with super glue. If you’re lucky they use your belly button. It’s just hanging around, all of its best days in the rearview mirror, so why not? It was made for hole punching. It’s kinda far away from your knee or your hip, so I wouldn’t suggest that they use it for those procedures–but as for my lady part removal— it was a no-brainer.

At least that was the plan. Plan A & B. It wasn’t written in stone, but still, cutting me open was…plan Q.

The bitch put up a fight. Instead of two hours, she fought for five.

Of course, my body parts would fight to remain inside. It’s cozy in there and they are most definitely well fed.

She was a big girl. Bigger than they had expected. And stubborn. Like a bull. She was the Bea Arthur of uteruses.
“We’re gonna need a bigger…hole”, someone said.
So they decided at the last-minute to cut me open, a three-inch c-section did the trick.

It looks spontaneous.
Like the last-ditch effort to remove something that doesn’t want to leave. Like those battering rams that punch giant holes in the doors of deadbeat, crack head squatters. It is not the clean edged, precision cut of a surgical scalpel, no, I look to have been cut open by a shard of glass from a broken bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon.

My incision has duck-lips. (See photo at the top), and it feels like a red-hot branding iron is searing my flesh every time I even think about moving.

I have questions. Lots. Okay, two.

1. How in the hell do women have an incision three times as large as mine and deal with a small infant? I would throw a crying baby out of the window right now. I kid you not. Ladies, you have my deepest respect. If I could bow to you without passing out—I would.

2. Who do I talk to about this because I’m appalled? This was supposed to be easy! Bea, (my uterus) and I sat down for weeks beforehand with tea and those expensive chocolate biscotti and had chit-chats about how this was going to go down. It was agreed that I had been more than accommodating, that eviction was imminent, and that she would go without so much as a whimper.

No one was expecting a bar fight. Least of all me.

So there you have it. My Sports Illustrated Swimsuit days are over, Bea obviously had her fingers crossed when she swore to me she’d leave without a fight, and mothers with c-sections are fucking superheroes.

Carry on,
xox

Oh… Holy Jesus in Jail.

I can’t think of anything I suck more at than small talk with complete strangers. It feels disingenuous, trite and completely without merit, therefore I loathe it.

small talk
noun:
polite (keyword), Conversation made about unimportant or uncontroversial matters, (why bother) especially as engaged in on social occasions. (Ugh, kill me now!)
“Propriety required that she face these people and make small talk.”

I want to blame it on the fact that I’m shy but we all know that would be a horrendous lie.
At gatherings, I can be gregarious, even bubbly IF I know the people (loving them makes me even better), and if I care about the topics being discussed.

See, that’s the thing about small talk with strangers at a soiree where you have not a rat’s ass of interest in what they have to say.

Case in point, a fancy car show.

Me: (said to one of the wives at lunch on day one of a two-day thingy) “So, what car did you drive here?” is what my mouth asked. My brain was screaming I don’t care! I don’t care! I don’t care! so loud that I couldn’t hear a word she said.

She, to be honest, looked as tragically bored as I felt. We were at a winery and I noticed she was drinking the Sauvignon Blanc so I gave her my sample. She handed me all of her red. All three samples. Well, I’ve slept with people for doing less. Needless to say, we became fast friends.

We sat in silence, like old friends do, sipping our wine, listening to the others prattle on. We had no need to talk. We had transcended small talk. Alcohol will do that if you let it. We did.

Later, back at the room, the prospect of a dinner with all of these same strangers loomed large. I opened the complimentary bottle of red and an equally classy bag of Pirate Booty. I stuffed my face without breathing, letting the puffed air covered in faux-white-cheese numb me out. I washed it down with a nice Shirah.

It was 4 p.m. and I was shit faced. I NEVER get shit faced. Most certainly NOT at 4 p.m. Dinner was scheduled for seven. Husband wanted to go down for cocktails at 6:30. Uh, oh.

I started drunk texting my tribe. What do I do? What do I say? How the hell did I polish off an entire bag of Booty? Help!

They were great. Very supportive. They only laughed at me a little. Ask the women what they’re reading. What’s on their nightstand. You’ll be able to comment on that, they suggested. SAVED! I thought. They’re right. I can do THAT.

Confidence renewed!

I proceeded to go and fix my face which meant reapplying pretty much everything I’d done that morning including picking my ubiquitous false lashes off of my upper lip and putting them back on my eyes where they belonged. Thank God I had two-plus hours to spare!

On the way down to cocktails, I was still a bit wobbly. Books. I’m a writer. I’ll ask what they’re reading, I reminded myself. I walked with all the conviction I could muster up to a table of wives. They barely looked at me. Tables of wives are a tough crowd. They are not for amateurs. I took a deep breath, handed my new BFF from lunch who was sitting with three others a glass of white wine as a bribe and was about to ask about books when one of them started to speak.

She was a gorgeous woman of about sixty-five in a stunning beige Valentino pantsuit. Her face contorted and she looked as if she were about to vomit as she whispered, “This is SO not my thing.”

Wait. What? Are we strangers telling each other the truth?

That’s when I lunged at her, practically sitting in her lap, hugging her in the most inappropriate and awkward way. “Ohmygodmeneither!” I did not whisper, “I love you!” They all nodded. We laughed, clinking glasses in an unspoken toast.

Then a magician appeared and did some card tricks. He finished by pulling an autographed ace of spades folded into the size of a postage stamp out of one of the wives wallet. I’m not kidding. You can’t make this shit up.

Okay…so, I have a theory. I think small talk is The Great Equalizer. Everyone dreads it and hardly anyone is good at it. Deep down people want to connect—just not that way. They want to talk about death, aliens, and magic. I really need to remember that the next time. And the nightstand question too.

How are you guys with the tiny talk? Are you good at it? If you are—please share your secrets.

Carry on,
xox

“Dear Lord — Please keep one hand on my shoulder, and the other hand over my mouth.”

Hard to find a better prayer than that.

When you are in the act of defusing a situation, be it a political argument or an obtuse disagreement about the pronunciation of the word foyer; and I say that because everyone knows there is only one correct pronunciation of the word foyer—Foy-yay—anyway, I highly recommend—if at all possible—a minimum of talking.

Think about it. We mostly defuse anger or frustration. We seldom defuse our joy. When I say seldom, I mean never. When was the last time you said, Oh, Holy Hell, there is just too much joy in this room, I need to change the subject!

See what I mean?

Defusing is an act best left to heavily outfitted bomb squads, street mimes, or those who have, through some cruel twist of fate, found themselves without a voice. I say that from experience.

Words tend to get… wordy, meanings become misconstrued, and at a certain point, nobody is listening anyway so I say the fewer the better.

Silent nodding is my preferred method.

Then there’s petting. I’m a big believer in defusing a tense or uncomfortable situation by deflecting attention away with some kind of awkward physical contact. I’ve been known to braid a person’s hair or lint-brush the shit out of their jacket in the midst of that kind of kinetic, twisty energy.

I do all of those things because it is next to impossible for me to keep my mouth shut. Hence the prayer at the top.

Question: Have you EVER helped this kind of situation by stating the facts, calling for common sense, or getting the last word?
Yeah, me neither.

There is always humor but humor is subjective and it can backfire and not in a funny clown car kind of way.

Let’s face it, there are times when people want nothing more than to vent. Or argue. Some like to pick fights.

It’s been my experience that this seldom ends well if I put in my two cents, so I’ve learned to keep my small change to myself and wait for people to ask for my opinion (which they don’t), or I keep my mouth full of cake. Cheese will do in a pinch, but cake takes forever to chew and swallow, especially without coffee, and by the time you do—the topic has usually shifted to something else.

Like the deterioration of the Polar Ice Caps and how the ice in my drink and the car I drive are contributing to the imminent death of the Planet.

Head… silently…nodding…

Cake anyone?

Carry on,
xox

“A bambiraptor is a savage baby deer.”
~ Alan Davies

I was randomly thinking about deer the other day. Don’t ask me why. I think it was prompted by a deer siting at the top of Beverly Glen a month or so ago but I can’t be sure.

Anyway, as we slowly wove our way up the canyon in a single file line (otherwise known as rush hour), I spied a deer casually teetering (if that’s even possible), on an impossibly vertical slope to my right.

Chewing lazily, she seemed to be sizing things up.

Should she stay and enjoy her snack until those things with wheels and bumpers and angry people inside that could kill her were gone? Or should she take her chances and make a run for it?

I could see her thinking about it and that made me mad.

Deer and cars don’t mix. Cars should be viewed with the same trepidation as any natural predator. Think wolf or coyote or Elmer Fudd. But they aren’t and you can just see it in their dark little Bambi eyes.

They are not the least bit afraid of cars.

They either have such an inflated sense of their own speed and agility that they’re convinced they can dash across a street without being hit OR they are in dire need of a Deer Newsletter that informs them of the dangers that living in the city can present.

Either way, evolution has failed them.

Cars are not a novelty. Cars have been around for tens of deer generations. They should run in the other direction the moment they smell traffic instead of eyeballing the wildflowers that grow on the other side of the street. When they see poor Bob laying there, yet another unfortunate victim of roadkill, they should have a family meeting where they yell and smoke too many Marlboro as they instill fear into the hearts of their baby does and sassy teenage bucks.

Maybe they do and nobody cares.

Every deer thinks that it won’t happen to them. Famous last words, right Bob?

I’m like a deer. We all are. You can tell me stuff is dangerous and I’ll just shrug and figure I’ll take my chances.
Sound familiar?

But maybe the deer have it right? Maybe we should ignore the stupid newsletter with page after page of what will kill us. Maybe we should just live our lives with curiosity about those flowers that grow on the other side of the street.

I don’t know. I can’t be sure any of it makes sense.

All I know is that some things aren’t worth dying for…and deer need to learn to read traffic better.

Carry on,
xox

I rest my case!

“You’ve picked a hell of a time to get a life!”

~ Me, in a text to my friend

My world has been turned upside down this past week—just not in the way you’d think.

It is not Trump or world events that have me feeling like I’ve been thrust into an alternate reality (Okay well, maybe they started it) it is the fact that my “accountability” friend has decided to get all “human” on me.

Sally, I will call her Sally because that’s her name, has been my friend for well over twenty years.
We served side by side in the jewelry trenches. Even then I counted on her to get me off my ass and outside in the fresh air. Spurred on by her desire to lose some actual baby weight she convinced me to run three miles with her every day after work. Since I had put on ten pounds of imaginary baby weight, and given the fact that I’m just a damn nice friend, I acquiesced.

But not without protest.

Since I’d never so much as picked up my pace to catch a cab or board a plane, actual running by choice was as farfetched of an idea to me as having a baby. And what do I do when I’m talked into to doing something I don’t like? The mature thing. I bitch and moan every step of the way.

Sally didn’t give a shit. She is the honey badger of accountability friends. 

She was always several paces ahead of me talking away, paying absolutely NO attention to my protests.
“Oh my gawd, I’m gonna die!”
“This is so hard. Isn’t this hard?”
“It’s so hot today, can’t we stop at the corner and go get ice cream?”
“I can’t do the hill. You do the hill. I’ll wait here and jog in place.”

Deaf ears don’t hear complaints.

These very valid reasons for quitting always fell on Sally’s deaf ears, and let me tell you—I can be persuasive. I could argue the collar right off of Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

IF Sally  replied, which was about as infrequent as the sex I was having in those days, her response was always the same “Come on, you can do this.”

Rain or shine we ran. Pouring rain in the winter and in temperatures well over one hundred degrees in the summer. I cried. I begged random gardeners on their rounds through those manicured Beverly Hills neighborhoods to spray me with cold water from their hoses for relief from the heat. Honey badger wasn’t having any of it. She just shook her head in disbelief and ran on. After a couple of years, she even convinced me to bump our daily mileage up to five.

‘Fuck me running”, as my friend Sandra would say.

Fast forward two decades and she has maintained her role as my Chief Exercise Accountability Expert—only now we hike.

Every Sunday and Tuesday. Those are the days we hike together. Sally hikes seven days a week. But since she has to be at work by ten, she starts most days when the sun comes up. I cannot subject myself to that kind of torture before I’ve had my coffee and pooped, so most days I get there by 8:30 and by that time Sally is long gone.

She still starts by seven on Sundays and Tuesdays, but since those are her days off she does the hike TWICE and I catch her at a civilized hour on her second go around. You heard me. She does a brutal, mostly uphill, three-mile hike TWICE on Sundays and Tuesdays.

Sally is a beast, a stone cold half-way bitch—and a soul sister.

When she swings past the stairs where we meet, (she doesn’t stop), she is barely out of breath. Her arm and ankle weights in place, she sets a pace that would challenge an Olympic athlete. Does she slow down at all? Nope. But I know the routine. I just try my damnedest to fall in line. It’s a lot like jumping into a round of Double Dutch. You get up to pace and jump in—or you fumble and fall out. As per our routine for the past two decades, I fall in step several paces behind her while she chats away—and then I commence the whining.

I love her for that. I love that she cannot be bothered with me and my resistance to exercise. I love that she talks over my complaints and that her only answer if she acknowledges me at all is “Come on, you can do this.”  I love her persistence and reliability. I know with the same certainty that I know that the sun will come up, that Sally will be on that mountain when I text her.

Except for this past Sunday.

I was actually looking forward to the hike since I’d been away for a week and we had a lot to catch up on. I geared up and enjoyed my prerequisite cup of coffee waiting for her text from the hill. That time came and went. Finally, around eight thirty (which is noon in Sally time), I texted her to make sure she hadn’t been bitten by a snake to eaten by a hungry bobcat because those are the only two reasons I could think of for her silence.

What she texted back was even more horrifying.

“Believe it or not I just woke up.”

Wait. What? Had the earth stopped spinning? Did pigs have wings? Was my exercise-nazi friend in trouble?

We agreed to meet and I actually got there before her! When I stopped checking the weather on my phone to see if hell had frozen over, I saw her pull up next to me. She didn’t even notice my car. When I went and stood next to her driver’s side window she jumped. She was slow, she had a cold and felt…wait for it…tired.

Oh, the humanity! Here was the proof that we had actually fallen through a portal into an alternate reality. This is not a woman who lets a cold or lack of sleep sidestep her! That is MY gig!

This is a woman who hikes when she has the flu. Or an injury. She limp/hikes. She would commando crawl if she had to. With a dog on her back. I swear to God.

Sunday she hiked one round. One lousy round. I was concerned but tried not to show it. I just shamed instead her because that’s what old friends do.

We still had Tuesday. Viruses don’t survive long on Sally. Tuesday she would be back to her old self and all would be right with the world. I would be the sick and tired one and SHE would go back to her role as the none-shit-giving honey badger.

Here is how yesterday, Tuesday, went.

8:22 am — I texted her the eyeballs which is our symbol for “Where are you?”

She texted back: I’m planting. Driving there soon.

My response: Wtf? Who are you and what have you done with Sally!

Sally: It’s just 8:22.

Me: Exactly! I was worried. You’re usually on round two!

Sally: I was amending soil and planting.

Me: You’ve picked a hell of a time to get a life!

Truth be told I’ve always wanted Sally to slow down and smell the flowers. Just not on Sundays or Tuesdays. I always figured she was immune to the seasons just as long as she could hike—so I’ll be happy for her when the shock wears off.

What happens if she decides to live life so fully that she becomes completely unaccountable?

It’s too much for me to think about today. I’m going to eat some pie for breakfast.

Carry on,
xox

Bal·ance: noun

1. An even distribution of weight enabling someone or something to remain upright and steady.
“I tripped and lost my balance” (This is a very relatable example for me.)

2. A condition in which different elements are equal or in the correct proportions.
“Overseas investments can add balance to an investment portfolio” (Um…This example? Not so much. We have no money invested offshore AND —my right boobie is bigger than my left. Just sayin’.)

3. An apparatus for weighing, especially one with a central pivot, beam, and a pair of scales.
(Any allusion to weight or scales and I get squirrely and stop reading.)

So, 4. and 5. and blah, blah, blah… There are three more definitions for balance but I think we all get the picture.

The only reason I put this up was because of my meditation today. You see, while my mind went searching in its own kind of scavenger hunt sort of cleverly disorganized way for my newest mantra, which is SURRENDER, it came back to me with the word BALANCE.

That was not what I sent it out to find!

So, I fought it. You know, like you do during meditation.

I fought like a crazed spider monkey looking for a hidden peanut in a rainforest in Madagascar.
I wanted my word!
I wanted SURRENDER!
Not that it was working all that well for me, which seems fairly obvious as I type this. But damn it! I find myself lately in dire need of some surrendering, so I figure that if I repeat it enough times in that far away place that meditation can drop you into, all of my synapses will re-wire themselves and I will open my eyes and suddenly be…tranquil…Accepting…Surrendery.

Except look who showed up instead. Fucking BALANCE.

Okay, show of hands, who here has achieved balance in their life? Uh huh. Uh, huh. Just as I suspected. Billy…put your hand down. Don’t make me come over there…

We all have moments of balance. Maybe even a day here or a month there and then that pesky thing called life gets in that way and fucks everything up.

Regardless of how convinced I am that my shit is together, there’s always a stray hair, right? Or a loose thread that’s threatening to unravel my delicate sweater of a life. Or a sudden wind set to blow down my house of cards.

If you’re anything like me (and I know you are), I always think I need to chill out more. Things are too hectic. Running, running, running. Planes, trains, and automobiles. Oh, my! Then, after I have relaxed for, I don’t know, three days, I get the itch to un-wedge my ass from the beach chair, grab a scooter and rob a bank because I’m SO FUCKING BORED!

Who’s with me?

BALANCE, HA! That means things are humming along nicely, right?  T’s crossed and I’s dotted. Duckies all in a row.

Very rarely (never) are my duckies in a row. My duckies are scattered to the wind, skittering across the pavement. My duckies are distacted by shiney objects and since they all wear tin-foil hats—it’s a mess. I’m under the impression that you need perfectly lined up duckies to achieve balance.

Am I wrong?

When I’m home I feel wanderlust. I want to be traveling the world and when I’m traveling I want to get home. When I’m eating kale I want it to be pizza. If I’m writing I want to be playing. I ask you, is that balance?

My girls and I went to Nashville to work. To hunker down and finish stuff. All of that unfinished stuff that tortures us at 3 am. To write our asses off. To brainstorm, and make calls, and answer emails and…“Can we go out? Can we go back to that hipster bar tonight so I can flirt with that bartender Kenneth again?”  I started whining at 5 pm.

I was done. Cooked. The unfinished stuff would have to wait for another day.

BALANCE!

I have none.

None!

So, I guess the voice in my head knows me better than I know myself.
SURRENDER will have to wait…or will it?

Carry on,
xox

“Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everyone I’ve ever known.” – Chuck Palahniuk

“Tread lightly and do no harm. Approach the problem from a passive direction and everything will simply come together.”-Skunk

“Oh, F*uck, Ruby!!!”

Our boxer-pup Ruby has been skunked three times in past nine months, the last time being Saturday night. I know what you’re thinking: What a glamourous life you lead!

Everything we own has the lingering aroma of skunk woven into its cellular structure. I say aroma instead of odor because the inhabitants of my home react to it like it’s a new scented spray from GLADE, or a particularly cloying potpourri because well—we’ve all gone nose-blind.

We don’t smell the residual skunk in our shower, on our blankets, or in our clothing until we leave the house and come back.
And you know what? I have to say, it’s really not that bad!

Human beings are mysterious creatures. We are so incredibly adaptable and as if to prove that fact my entire family has adapted to the stench.

The first time, it caused my eyes to water profusely and I drooled like a cartoon wolf eyeing a pork chop.

The second time I gagged. Loudly.

This time the smell barely made me flinch.

Even the little brown dog seemed unfazed and her sense of smell is ten hundred billion times more sensitive than mine.

Here’s the thing, if you visit me three times…you’re a totem. I don’t care what you are. Grasshopper. Praying mantis. A Girl Scout selling Thin Mints. And since I am not one to miss an opportunity to ask “why?” I looked up “skunk totem.”

“If Skunk is your Animal Totem;
You are the ultimate pacifist, always preferring to avoid conflict and turmoil. You walk a very fine line between being a people “pleaser” and balancing your own self-respect and always maintain a “do no harm” attitude. You know how to be assertive without ego. You know how to attract others and are very charismatic. You have a good understanding of energy and how to use energy flows to get what you want.”

This makes no sense. It fits absolutely NO ONE in my house! Not one word of it. The three of us bicker like a angry pack of honey badgers. Ego is our middle name, and if charisma smells like skunk, well then okay. Otherwise…

My husband insists that this only goes to show that sometimes a “cigar is just a cigar, Janet—and a skunk is just a nuisance.” This all makes me mad because it proves that he is right yet again. 

And so…this bleeding heart has agreed to catch and release—the trap has been set and the skunk-scented potpourri is about to leave the building.

Geesh.

Happy weekend y’all!

Carry on,
xox

“Never trust any who treats a waiter badly.”

~ Anyone with a soul

I’ve had a lot of jobs in my life. I worked my way through my twenties as a cashier in a supermarket while many of my friends waited tables, catered and tended bar. Based on our nightly bitch sessions, I can tell you without hesitation that selling people food and serving it to them are two completely different experiences.

Food service is grueling work. And absolutely soul-sucking if people aren’t nice. Nobody has to lick your face or nibble your neck—just your standard issue basic human decency nice would suffice.

I’ve sat at tables with snippy divas. Women who are prickly, easily annoyed—on the lookout for trouble. It has always been my belief that if you’re lookin’ for trouble, trouble will not only find you, it will pull up a chair, order a drink, charge it to your tab, and over-stay its welcome.

We all know these women. They huff and puff and send stuff back. They act indignant, dis-respected. Like me when I get carded.

They don’t like the look of the lettuce, the ice is too cold or the coffee tastes burnt—so they shame the staff. Seriously? The only time I ever sent something back was when my wine glass had a lipstick stain on the rim and I hadn’t sipped from it yet. And I apologized so profusely my husband had to shoot me some stink-eye to shut me up.

Listen, I’m not particularly judgy. But be forewarned. I WILL judge you harshly for treating people in the service industry rudely.

That includes being a cheap tipper.

Lots of folks supplement a lousy salary with commission or tips. It can be the difference between making ends meet and having to pick up a second job. Please, think of that the next time you’re tempted to hand the young guy who ran three blocks, in the rain, to fetch your car—a lousy buck.

I’ve seen that.

One measly dollar. You know what one dollar buys these days? Uh…nothing.

Same with the young man or woman who spends twenty minutes hand drying your car at the car wash. I saw a lady hand the guy next to me ONE dollar after he not only hand dried, but at her insistence spent extra time cleaning and shining up the chrome rims on her giant SUV—in ninety-degree weather.

You could smell the stingy. Don’t be that lady.
Get change if you have to, but please be a decent tipper. Trust me, that person needs the cash a lot more than you do.

At least that’s what I tell myself when I’m tempted to be cheap. I’m not immune to feeling broke but if I have the good fortune to spring for a mani-pedi, or get my car washed, park valet or go out to lunch—I’m better off than most.

This seems to be a time of me or them. I might suggest that we find some common ground. Like hard work, industriousness, and hustle—and the fact that we’ve all been there. Then it’s just us.

Right?

Carry on,
xox